Farquharson leant back in his chair and looked from one to the other, smiling.
"Well, if I were ill at ease, your conversation is hardly likely to inspire me with confidence," he said. "You're wrong, though—if there's treachery anywhere it's in the F.O. itself. After all, a good many people go in there on one plea or another, and other nations employ a very much greater number of secret agents than we do. As for to-night"—he rose and stretched himself—"I'm looking forward to my scrimmage. I may get a bit knocked about myself, but I shan't let my opponents go unscathed." He looked at his watch. "I ought to be off now. Von Kirsch wants another interview; he's ill in bed, poor chap. He had a motor accident the other day, you know. I can't get down to him and back under three hours."
"Isn't that running things rather close? Better dine with me; it's nearer the House," said Beadon.
"Thanks," said Farquharson, "I think I'll get a chop there instead. Time is short anyway, and one can't hurry a sick man. I shan't have more than ten minutes or so to spare for a meal. Good-bye, then, for the present." He went off whistling.
Beadon looked after him, smiling affectionately.
"He's brightened up a lot lately. Success suits him."
"You are the more troubled of the two about to-night," said Meavy, watching him intently.
"Oh, well, that's natural," said Creagh. "Besides, Beadon's been on the sick-list. His doctor threatens all sorts of complications if he goes on working as he has done lately."
"The brunt of to-night's battle will fall on my son-in-law, who is more than capable of meeting it," said Beadon. "I'm a bit run down, that's all. Who's that at the door? Oh, you, my dear."
He went forward and greeted Dora with a playful tap on the shoulder.